Denial
by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John dealing with Sherlock's disappearance / death.


Auuthor's Note: This is just me toying with how John feels waiting for Sherlock to come back (or adjusting to life with Sherlock removed). Thinking over his character, this seems a bit OOC now. I'm terrible when dealing with Watson - he's such a straightforward character at times, never too ambiguous like Sherlock and Moriarty. Anyway

* * *

Do something extraordinary. Make everyone look stupid in your wake.

That isn't you in this grave. You're watching me from a distance and laughing at my sentimental idiocy. You must be.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES," it says on this gravestone. It feels too cold.

I'm going home now, Sherlock. You better be there when I get home. I'm going to punch you. And then I'll-

Please. Just one more miracle.

* * *

It's been three days and I've been getting impatient. When are you going to burst in through the door, soaked in blood and whining about your boredom? Your tea is cold. You don't respond to my messages.

There's this kind of silence everywhere now. I can't exactly describe it, but it's the most discerning thing I've ever experienced.

Everyone thinks you're a lie; I don't. I know I'm your friend. Friends don't just give up on their friends, Sherlock.

It's almost like you're-

Please. Just one more miracle.

* * *

Three weeks. I can't hold a cup of tea in my left hand without spilling some of it. Of course, I can still walk, but my knees tremble sometimes. And it's not just due to some psychosomatic limp or whatever, it's due to the fact that you're a twat.

Sherlock, you're a twat and you need to come home. I know you're alive and you're hiding from me. I'm doing fine other than the fact that everything is just so god damn boring around London without criminals to chase and everything.

Have you been with Irene? I figured you might have visited her sometime during your...disappearance. What else could you be doing? Where could you even be hiding, you...you _twat_.

Just...I kept my gun with me when I moved into our flat. I remember exactly where it is, and that scares me, remembering exactly where I leave it.

I don't have dreams of Afghanistan anymore, just dreams of you..._falling._ I know you had some trick up your sleeve, and now you're off in the world, free of fame. Did you think I would just go on with my life and dismiss you as a fraud? I've seen you at work and I'm not going to forget how good you are at it.

Please...just one more miracle.

* * *

Three months. I wonder how Mrs. Hudson is; this new flat is beige and, to you, boring. Approximately two girlfriends have dumped me recently. They were blind dates, anyway.

You picked apart every line in _Diamonds are Forever, _and now I can't watch a single Bond movie without remembering you insulting my taste in films. It's the most annoying thing ever, and you need to come over here sometime and finish that marathon of ours you abandoned.

The media has calmed down a bit, which is good. People are starting to forget their consulting detective. Although, there's still a...sore spot, where your name once filled the news. Many have questioned the cases you solved, though I know that there's no way you could have faked all of it. How can everyone be so paranoid?

I've finally been able to put my finger on what this silence is. It's a lack of...you. I don't know. Though - I know now what you mean when you say you can hear people thinking...and how loud it is. There was always something..in the air when you were thinking. I could hear you making connections, sleuthing, deducing. In a way, it was very loud – always filled up the room. The subtle thoughts in your head were always so loud, and, although I don't miss you being an arse, I sort of, I don't know, miss hearing it.

God, just come back sometime. Drop by my new flat so I can punch you. What have you been getting up to, anyway? Tell me of your travels. What kind of cases have you been solving? I know you wouldn't be able to live without a case. They must be boring and small, since you don't appear in the news. Then again, if you're in another country, I doubt it would make it's way over here.

Sherlock Holmes, where _are_ you?

* * *

Three years.

I visited your gravestone today. It's cold to the touch. Said a few things.

You were...extraordinary, to say the least. You were infuriating. You were my friend. Meeting you was probably a miracle. And you did exist, as well as your brain.

Even though you might find it boring...

Rest in peace, Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
